Anthea, Fair
by darthsydious
Summary: Daughter of the Holmes chauffeur, and hopelessly in love with the elder Holmes, Anthea is sent away to school, to hopefully cure her of it. Her marks earn her an internship for MI6 foreign office, and soon Anthea is working with none other than the man she's trying so hard to get over. Inspired by the film(s) 'Sabrina'. Sherlolly, Mythea.
1. Chapter 1

_Inspired by the film 'Sabrina' (either adaptation tbh). Naturally, changes have been made to fit characters, and it isn't a replica of the story, but many elements are inspired for this fic. Enjoy!_

* * *

 _Once upon a time, on the south shore of England, some fifty or so miles from London, there lived a small girl on a large estate. The estate was very large indeed and had many servants. There were gardeners to take care of the gardens, and a tree surgeon on a retainer. There was a boatman to take care of the boats: to put them in the water in the spring, and scrape their bottoms in the winter. There were specialists to take care of the grounds: the outdoor tennis court and the indoor tennis court, the outdoor swimming pool and the indoor swimming pool. And there was a man of no particular title who took care of a small pool in the garden for a goldfish named Toby. Also on the estate living above the garage was a chauffeur by the name of Barsetti, who had been imported from Italy, years ago, together with a new Fornasari. Barsetti was a fine chauffeur of considerable polish, like the eight cars in his care, and he had a daughter by the name of Anthea. It was the eve of the annual six meter yacht races, and as had been tradition of Brighton for the past 30 years, the Holmes were giving a party. It never rained on the night of the Holmes party, the Holmes wouldn't have stood for it. There were four Holmes in all: father, mother and two sons. Mycroft Holmes, the elder son, graduated from Cambridge, where his classmates voted him the man Most Likely to Become Prime Minister. His brother, Sherlock, went through several of the best eastern colleges for short periods of time, and through several stays in rehabilitation for even shorter periods of time. He is now a successful consulting detective, a job he made up, and is listed on Mycroft's tax return as a £4000 deduction. Life was pleasant among the Holmes, for this was as close to heaven as one could get in Brighton._

As she often did, Anthea sat perched on the sturdy limb of a tree overlooking the terrace that was currently filled with swaying couples. Through the open French doors, Mycroft was surrounded by important looking men, clearly annoyed at the conversation. Or perhaps he was simply annoyed with the men in general. It was hard to tell; he was always so serious. Sherlock, on the other hand, milled around the edges of the party, sourly deducing each guest until they either threw a drink in his face or burst into tears. He'd gotten rather good at avoiding thrown drinks. His mother forced him to attend the yearly party, and parties were not Sherlock's forte. Anthea watched with some amusement (and a little pity) as his next target stepped up, attempting to get him to dance by way of flirtation. The women at the party were all a dime-a-dozen, looking for a rich husband to make a good match and secure their expensive style of living. Either of the Holmes brothers would make an excellent match, as far as finances went. However Mycroft was far too busy working (at whatever it was he did) and Sherlock was a happily settled bachelor in London, looking for a flat mate to help share rent and utilities, and quite comfortably living on whatever salary a Consulting Detective makes. Clearly a good enough salary for him to scrape by in Central London.

"'Thea?"

She turned at the sound of her father calling her. "Here," she called.

"Just where I expected you to be," he smiled up at her. "Come on, you'd better come down and pack, you've got an early flight."

"Yes I know, I just wanted to see –"

"You know how these things always go, come on now, I need help washing the Rolls."

With a sigh, she slid down, looking over her shoulder just once more.

Up the walkway suddenly stormed Mycroft.

"Good evening, Mycroft," she stepped out of the shadow of the tree as he came to a stop, hearing his voice.

He glanced at her, giving her a curt nod. "Good evening Anthea. You leave tomorrow, do you not?"

"Yes, I do, I-"

"Well have a safe flight, good night," any civility was washed from his expression and he turned quickly, making for his wing of the manor. Clearly, the party was over for him.

With a small sigh, she watched as he retreated across the lawn and disappeared into the house. In a little while, a helicopter rose on the other side, heading for London. She could see Mycroft in the passenger seat, briefcase on his lap.

Slowly, she made her way across the paved driveway to the garage where her father was busy soaping up the antique Rolls-Royce.

"Grab a sponge, dear," he said and she obeyed, watching the lights of the helicopter blinking in the distance.

Her father, being the wise man that he was, decided it was time for her to get out into the world, and away from Mycroft Holmes. It wasn't her fault she had to have a crush on the sternest member of the Holmes family. She supposed it was because he was so quiet. She wanted dearly to make him laugh. She was being sent to Paris, to the École Normale Superieure to study. Anthea knew it was for the best, especially since she didn't feel she had a chance with Mycroft. Not that she would ever hope such a thing, but one does love to wallow in pity, especially in a one-sided love affair.

Yes, Barsetti was wise indeed. He knew the distance between his daughter and Mycroft, for an extended period of time, would make all the difference. She would have a chance to grow into her own mind, and to flourish too. Yes, Paris was a good idea.


	2. Chapter 2

Her first real trip away from home, away from car polish, the noise of garage doors opening under her feet, away from even the familiarity of speaking English. She was away from everything she knew to remind her of home. Naturally, she felt quite free, though dreadfully sad for it meant being away from Mycroft, and in Paris, no less! Naturally, her first semester was abysmally depressing, being so far away, and surrounded by people who were in love, and happily so. But she soon enough found her feet. She made friends, and found herself happily falling in love with the city itself. She flourished in the beautiful city, and as an act of her feeling more like an adult, (and somehow she felt as an act of defiance against Mycroft, who hadn't so much as written her a letter, the fink) she naturally cut her hair. She had once been able to just about sit on it, but after a night of self-pitying and most likely too much cheap wine, and a good deal of encouragement from her friends she went into the bathroom and hacked a good chunk off. It wasn't until morning she saw the error of her ways, or at least the downside of trying to cut one's hair whilst drunk. She went straight away to a salon and had it 'freshened up' a bit. She was left with a very attractive shoulder-length coiffure, just long enough to put up if she so chose.

A new hairstyle does wonders, and soon enough, she went shopping for a wardrobe to match the feeling her new hairstyle gave her. Unfortunately, the Paris fashion industry was rather out of Anthea's wallet-range. However, thanks to Lord and Lady Holmes, who felt some loyalty to their chauffeur of twenty or so years, sent along what they called some 'pocket change', which of course, was a far grander amount than Anthea had ever anticipated. She was loath to spend it, feeling certain there had been a mistake. Her friends insisted she buy herself a little something, and soon enough, with their influence, and too the seduction of the fashion-forward city, Anthea slowly collected for herself a new, rather respectably smashing wardrobe.

Four years was a terribly long time to be gone, and she had promised her father she would not return except for holidays. She knew the more she returned home the more she would miss it, and bring up feelings she was desperately trying to overcome. It turned out it didn't matter anyway, as each time she did return to England, the elder Holmes was always mysteriously absent. Still, his absence was for the best in the long run, and she found herself missing the idea of him less and less. He had moved to London, the necessity of being closer to his 'work', whatever it was, finally winning out. He still returned to the Holmes estate on weekends, especially as his parents were taking a three-year trip around the world and the house would be empty.

Anthea wrote often, and her father was glad to see how the time and distance had proved to be fruitful, both in her education and in that her feelings for the elder Holmes seemed to have cooled considerably.

Her second year she never came home, too busy keeping her head well above the proverbial waters as it were. Not that her grades were ever in danger, rather she was miles ahead of her classmates, and she had been noticed by powerful people who worked for secret government organizations around the world. How they ever found her, she wasn't sure, only that they all shared a mutual friend. Perhaps Sherlock? Whomever it was, Anthea was soon made an intern at MI6 foreign office in Paris. As such, her work was terribly private. She ached for home, for her flat above the garage at the Holmes estate, for her father singing as he washed the cars. Paris was familiar and beautiful, _almost_ home, a better home than she had ever pictured for herself, but she still wished for the childhood comforts one always misses when they move away. She was surprised then, one day as she finished her work at the foreign office to see the younger Holmes lingering on the curb, smoking a cigarette, clearly waiting for her.

"Sherlock!"

"Anthea," he replied, flicking the end of his cigarette. He held it out in offering to her but she shook her head.

"No thanks, gave it up."

He quirked an eyebrow, surprised, but shrugged, taking one last drag before stamping it out.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Case, obviously. You look, different. Almost didn't recognize you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she laughed.

"I meant it as such."

Anthea turned to study him with a quizzical brow. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

He rolled his eyes. "Why do you assume I need a favor?"

"You're doing that thing with your voice."

He smirked, somewhat appreciating her bluntness. "Very well, you are correct. I have a favor to ask that will prove mutually beneficial to the both of us," he said.

"Go on," Anthea nodded. She started walking and he hurried to catch up.

"I'm on a case-"

"So you said-"

"I need someone to fetch some files from the foreign office you see-"

She whirled on him, shocked and annoyed. "Sherlock!"

His smirk was positively wicked. "-and as my brother is less-than-willing to fetch them for me-"

"I could lose my job!"

"And I could be unable to solve this case!"

"I'm sure there are other methods," Anthea continued on and he trailed behind. "Come on, what's the real reason?"

"Very well, I'm bored, frankly. I need a partner for this case. I do actually need the files, and Mycroft has promised his assistance 'as best I can manage', I believe were his words."

"Which means not fast enough for you," Anthea added, still irritated, somewhat amused, glad that some things had still not changed: Sherlock and Mycroft worked together, but barely.

"He's positively at a snail's pace, a man's life is depending upon the information in those files."

Anthea slowed in her steps. "Who?"

When Sherlock didn't answer, she touched his arm. "Sherlock, who?"

He sighed heavily, finally meeting her gaze. "Your father."

She turned slowly, gaze narrow. "Who says?"

Sherlock looked at his shoes, then finally up at her. "My brother does."

Anthea felt her breathing become shallow, and she held a hand out to steady herself. She felt Sherlock grasp her arm, bringing her to a table at a nearby café.

"He's been working for my brother for years now," Sherlock said, when certain she would not faint.

"For the foreign office?" she asked.

"Not quite," Sherlock replied. "I don't know how he works for Mycroft, only that he does, and now someone is threatening him. There are…events in your father's past that are being brought to light,"

"I take it because my father is not English born the files would not be kept in England, then. What makes you think they'll be here in Paris?" Anthea asked, low.

Sherlock's smile was secretive. "Mycroft's idea. No one would look for them here."

"Except now someone is," Anthea contradicted.

"Yes. Mycroft is unfortunately attending some sort of meeting in Iraq and cannot get out of it, besides which you know his loathing for any sort of 'leg-work'. He put me on the case, promising his long-distance assistance, which naturally means only when he has a spare minute as the case is a sensitive one."

"You mean he's expecting you to break in?"

"Of course he is, but naturally I don't know all the codes for the foreign office."

"Neither do I!" Anthea answered, trembling all over, not from the shock of his suggestion, but that she knew no matter what, she'd be somehow breaking into the MI6 files.

Sherlock smiled broadly at her. "We only need one code."

Anthea sighed. She checked the time. "Very well. The offices close in two hours. Let's go and get a bite, and meet back here at midnight."

"Excellent!" Sherlock clapped his hands. "I don't eat on a case, but if there is coffee to be had…"

They set off for a restaurant away from the scene of their future crime, Sherlock all-too-pleased to fill her in on what he knew about her father's past, about his work for Mycroft Holmes and MI6 and how he came to be the family chauffeur.

Anthea felt as if she were in a daze. The simple past she thought her father had left behind in Italy suddenly became complicated, frightening. As the night wore on, Anthea's resolve grew. If Mycroft Holmes would or could not help her father, then she bloody well would.


	3. Chapter 3

**MI6 Foreign Office**

Anthea Barsetti was not one to break the law. She hadn't stolen so much as a pencil in her entire life. She did try very hard to always tell the truth (as a result she'd become terribly clever at how she phrased things when asked direct questions. Thus far, her superiors seemed to like this trait and seemed to be encouraging it). Despite her spotlessly clean record, though, Anthea found herself cleanly hacking into m16's foreign office. She didn't dare key in her personal code. Records were kept each day how many times a person entered and exited the building. In order to cover their tracks, no one could know she had been in or out of the building past working hours. Working from a burner laptop (which Sherlock refused to say where or how he acquired it), she opened doors she had never thought she could gain access to without a passcode. She was also surprised at the deplorable ease with which she could hack into the offices. It made her wonder just who had designed such a flimsy security system. She was suspicious that it was too easy, that their every step was being watched and recorded.

"I could lose my position for this, Sherlock," she said, breathless as the numbers ticked down to the final access door.

"Your father could lose his life." He countered somberly.

"I know." She tapped the 'enter' key. The feed to the cctv's on her screen all winked for less than half a second, barely noticeable, and then remained frozen. For all the security guards knew, they would be seeing empty hallways, shut doors and most definitely would not have any proof of Sherlock or Anthea slipping into the MI6's foreign office filing room.

From his coat pockets, Sherlock produced a curious black box with what looked like a usb cord attached to it.

"Where did you get that?" Anthea asked, surprised.

"Hotel down the way. Front desk was unattended. It's for opening doors when the electricity is out. Not to worry, I'll return it once we're finished here." Unscrewing the keypad, Sherlock plugged in the access device while Anthea stood watch.

Inside, Sherlock looked around with some surprise. Instead of a computer, there were filing cabinets, hundreds of them.

"Isn't this supposed to be on a computer?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Anthea shook her head. "Everything is kept as a hardcopy. A person can't hack into a literal filing system."

"But a person can break into one," Sherlock replied breezily. "Alphabetized?" he asked, referring to the rows of files.

Anthea nodded, confirming. "You'll have to be careful though, everything is rigged like a bank. Some files have dye packs."

"Mustn't get caught red-handed then, must we?" Sherlock smirked, selecting his pickset from his breast pocket.

The files were easily located and extracted without setting off the dye-packs. Once sure that the lock to the filing system didn't look tampered with, (Anthea made Sherlock unpick and pick it three times until the lock was upright) and their security measures were still in place, it was time to vacate the premises.

Out of the filing room, and taking a fire escape via a bathroom window, Anthea and Sherlock made their getaway. Once out of the building, they could release their security precautions. They had covered their tracks nicely, and Anthea worried less and less they would be caught.

In an empty alley near her flat, Sherlock and Anthea caught their breath. Anthea took the burner laptop, promising to get rid of it.

"Be sure you give that access device back to the hotel," she cautioned.

"I don't know, might come in handy later…" Sherlock shrugged. He glanced at the files under his arm. "Sure you wouldn't care to look?"

Anthea shook her head immediately. "I don't want to see. Whatever is there…It's not for me to see. That's in his past, and it doesn't have anything to do with me."

"It might, one day," Sherlock warned her.

She looked up at him with a frown. "What do you mean? Do you know?"

He shook his head. "I only meant that if things in your father's past are coming back after all these years, and it comes to light that you were the one to get hold of the papers, there would be cause to suspect you knew of his dealings."

"Well I don't," Anthea replied, clipped. "All I know is that he is in danger, that you're on his side, and so is Mycroft, that tells me that whoever is after him is in the wrong."

Sherlock smirked, studying her. He looked very much as if he knew something she didn't. "Quite right, Anthea." He tucked the files away inside his coat where they would be concealed. "Thanks again for your help," he called over his shoulder. "And don't worry, 'mum's' the word. I shan't be telling my brother what you've been up to." With that he disappeared around the corner, leaving Anthea holding the burner laptop, wondering what in the hell she had just done.

Paranoid, as soon as she got home, she bolted her door, closed the blinds and drapes and set to work pulling apart the laptop. The memory board she removed first, snapping it to bits. If they wanted information, they bloody well weren't going to get it from her. Piece by piece, she disposed of the laptop in the rubbish bins across Paris, far from her flat, far from the foreign office.

The next morning, when she arrived at work, she found herself eerily calm as she entered the building. No one stopped her, greetings were exchanged same as usual. No one called her in to speak with her, there were no curious reports about security footage. The filing room was not accessed every day, and so no one would notice if a file was missing, at least not immediately. Anthea played her usual part, and MI6 didn't seem to suspect for a moment the meek chauffeur's daughter had just the previous evening broken into one of the most secure buildings in the country.

Time passed, and Anthea put the incident behind her, focusing again on juggling work and studies until a little over a year had passed. She heard intermittently from her father. Letters were sparse anyway, he was not much of a writer, glad to receive hers though. So if he only wrote once or twice a month, she did not fret that something had happened. She took it to mean that he was being careful not to arouse suspicion, and he did not suspect she had anything to do with his missing files. By now there was scuttlebutt going about in MI6 that certain files were missing. Anthea had not made any comment, as no one had spoken to her on the subject.

She stopped worrying, even in private, that her superiors knew what she'd done and were luring her into a false sense of security before doing away with her. She ascended the ranks in MI6 from common intern to a low-ranking form of secretary, took defense courses and learned how to shoot several different fire-arms. She was given codes to secure rooms she had only seen in passing when she had hacked into the system. She did wonder why she was being given so much clearance, until by chance once day as she was exiting her flat, a black unmarked car sat idling by the curb. This in itself was not so surprising, but rather, the occupant of the car. The door opened, and out stepped the lithe figure of Mycroft Holmes. She felt the familiar leap her heart used to do whenever he was in her sights, and it did not disappoint, though perhaps due to time and distance, it was not quite so jarring as it used to be. Confidence in herself, and knowing that he was her superior in their line of work helped quell the usual feelings that came up whenever he appeared.

Anthea had no trouble in finding her voice, "Good evening, sir!" She couldn't help but smile, just a little, at his familiar face, and the fact that he was clearly there for her (MI6 training or not, she was still human). Then suddenly, as quickly as she had begun to smile she frowned. "Is something the matter? Have they sent you to fetch me?"

Mycroft inclined his head politely, hooking his umbrella on his arm. "There is nothing wrong. Your father said you would not be returning to England this year."

"No, sir," she shook her head. "I'm busy with finals and," a smile that appeared to be doing its best to hide her pride barely grew before she schooled her features. "Other work."

"Yes," Mycroft nodded, a twinkle in his eye. "Yes talking of which," he stepped aside, holding the door of the car for her. "There is an important matter I should like to discuss with you."

"I'm off the clock now," Anthea said, checking her watch. "Shall we get supper and discuss it then?"

"Very well," he nodded and let her pass, waiting until she'd scooted over before climbing in after her. "I think there is a very good restaurant near-"

"Oh no!" Anthea interrupted. The last thing she wanted was a dining experience with portions so small a person was finished after the first mouthful. She knew Mycroft's tastes (one couldn't _not_ know them, having practically grown up with him) and knew they'd end up in a stuffy restaurant with twinkly music and people all murmuring that anything less would be 'like dining with heathens'.

Mycroft looked at her with a start. She merely smiled in return.

"Trust me," she said. "I've lived here for three years now, I know it very well, just as you know England, I know Paris."

Mycroft, hindered by the fact that he did not speak French very well (yet), was resigned to allow Anthea to direct his driver to wherever it was she was determined to go.

She took him to an Indian restaurant, of all the places, in the Latin Quarter. It looked like little more than a hole in the wall to Mycroft, but Anthea seemed to know what she was doing, and where she was going. Still, Mycroft felt the need to take her elbow, just in case.

Inside, it was, much to his pleasure, not a reflection of the exterior. Warmly lit, cozily decorated, very much a stylish and beautiful restaurant, and the scents that were coming from the kitchen were enough to convince him he had done the right thing and let Anthea take the lead.

That is until she requested their table, and was then led to a low table and cushions. Anthea immediately sat, but he remained standing, umbrella on his arm. He stared at the offending cushion.

"What?" Anthea asked with a laugh. "Can't you sit down?"

"Are there no tables?"

"You're looking at one right now," Anthea retorted crisply. "Go on, it's quite nice."

So, unbuttoning his suit jacket, he laid his umbrella by the cushions and sat down as carefully as he could without feeling like an awkward camel. Now, he looked around for the menus, and was annoyed when Anthea informed him there were none.

"If we're seated in this section, we're indicating we want a thali," Anthea explained.

While their food was cooked, Mycroft produced from his overcoat a bottle of wine.

"I never travel without my own," he replied at Anthea's curious expression. Two glasses were brought, and he poured, allowing her to take the first taste.

Deciding she liked it, she held her glass out for him to fill. "How is my father?" she asked. She had not forgotten what Sherlock had told her a year ago, that her father worked for Mycroft, and that he was in danger. If Mycroft knew anything, he would tell her so.

He glanced up from pouring. "Perfectly well, thinking of retiring, which has mother in conniptions, but she'll get over it."

"Yes, he wrote and told me," Anthea nodded. "He didn't say why, and I wondered why he suddenly felt the need…" she trailed off, studying the elder Holmes.

Mycroft had such a curious look, his mouth set firmly in a line. Realizing she had stopped talking, he looked at her, meeting her gaze.

"What do you know, Mr. Holmes?"

He raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed.

"He is retiring, not by personal choice, but for his own safety-"

Anthea gripped the stem of her glass, clearly worried. "He works for you, very close to you," she said, very much not referring to her father's position as family chauffer.

Mycroft looked at her steadily, no small degree of admiration at her quick thinking, her ability to see what others would not see as obvious. "He does, or did."

"For…" she glanced at their surroundings without turning her head. "For you personally?"

Again, Mycroft nodded, pretending to be absorbed in the bottle label. "This vintage is very good," he said a little louder, conversationally. "He has always worked for the foreign office, very hush-hush," he murmured, low. "How do you think you were awarded an internship?"

"Just lucky, I guess," Anthea replied, breathless. "Where is the wine from?" she asked, keeping up their faux conversation.

"Napoli, your father's birth region, if I am not mistaken."

They could say no more at present, for the server appeared with a large thali, placing it between them. Mycroft let Anthea do the talking, his French was rudimentary, but he was swiftly picking it up listening to the conversation around him. He heard her request they be left alone, and they would call if they had any need. He smirked inwardly, realizing that it was a perfect atmosphere for a private conversation. Wine, a shared meal, low lights. People would think they were merely having a romantic dinner, rather than actually discussing the retirement of one of MI6's best foreign spies and personal secretary for one of the most powerful men in England, let alone the world. Truth be told, even despite the business at hand, Mycroft found himself pleasantly surprised by Anthea's demeanor. Rather than burst into tears at the shock of her father's true occupation, she did the next most logical thing: asked what came next for her. Clearly, he was only telling her because she had a need to know. If she were not involved, if it were not important for her to know, she would have been told the same as everyone else: that the Holmes chauffer was retiring back to his home country after twenty-eight years of service. In reality, he was being sent into hiding, the location even Anthea was not allowed to know.

"Which leaves you in need of a bodyguard," Anthea realized.

Mycroft smiled, amused, then frowned as he again tried to keep the filling of his roti in his hands. "Miss Barsetti, I have at least eight personal guards within earshot at this moment, I think that the last thing I need is another one," he attempted to fold over the roti in his hands, making a mess of it. He looked at the sorry heap in his fingers with a distasteful frown. Why in God's name didn't he ask for a set of cutlery?

Shaking her head, Anthea took the wrap from him, folded it properly, and handed it back to him before fixing her own.

Blinking, he looked at the roti, then finally took a bite, submitting to a coughing fit almost instantly.

Without batting an eye, Anthea lifted his glass, handing it to him. "Take a swallow, you'll feel better,"

He obeyed, clearing his throat, swallowing hard. Once recovered, he took another bite, this time expecting the spice, and now knowing to take a bite of bread with it.

Anthea suddenly smiled across the way at him, her eyes sparkling.

"What?" he asked, truly confused. No one looked at him like that. It was…disarming. And truth to tell he was having a very difficult time concentrating on the task at hand with Anthea acting as she was. Not that she was behaving indecently. It was simply that she had grown up, she had matured, and suddenly Mycroft realized she was a sophisticated, brilliant-minded young woman now.

' _Emphasis on young, brother-dear'_ Sherlock's mocking tone echoed in his thoughts, and he blinked, trying to clear his head.

"Well," Anthea shook her head, smiling again at him. "I never expected to see you in a place like this,"

"Where should I be dining then?" he asked, looking over the rim of his glass at her.

She tapped her chin, licking the oil from her lips as she thought. "Probably something like Le Meurice," she answered at last. "All…stuffy, pretty to look at, and lovely food too, but everyone talks very quietly," she lowered her voice to almost a whisper. "And there aren't prices on the menu because the people who go there never worry about their water costing fifty-six euros."

He looked at his lap, feeling rather keenly the truth of her words. It _was_ true. He would never have chosen the restaurant Anthea had brought him to. Indeed, he would have brought her to the Ritz or some other five-star restaurant. He was also surprised to find he was enjoying this meal, the atmosphere included.

"You were saying though," Anthea murmured.

He blinked. What had he been saying? Botheration.

"About my father," she prompted.

Nodding, he took a sip of wine, leaning forward. "Miss Barsetti-"

"Anthea," she corrected.

"What?"

"If we're to be putting up the guise of a lovely couple on a date, we really should be on a first name basis, don't you think?"

"Anthea," he amended, gentle smile playing upon his lips, though his eyes were quite serious. "I am in Paris not simply for a meeting with the foreign office, but also because you are being groomed as a replacement for your father."

She blinked, clearly shocked.

"What?"

"Your father was my personal assistant, the term 'secretary' is batted around, but the duties are far above and beyond mere stenographical duties, as I am sure you are well aware."

Till taken aback by his statement, Anthea stuttered on: "I- I'm still in university…"

"And have little to no trouble in your classes," Mycroft added on. "According to your professors, you are sailing for an early graduation, by this summer, if I am not mistaken."

"That's why I wasn't planning on coming home this year," Anthea nodded, confirming.

"Very well then," he nodded. "I am afraid the position requires you start immediately, naturally, you may continue your courses via correspondence, I will see to it you have the proper time to focus on the work."

Anthea's head swam. She'd be moving from her beloved Paris, moving back to England, London, of all places, to work for Mycroft Holmes.

"I trust this will not be difficult for you, you have no ties to the city, no…relationships?"

"No," she shook her head, then paused. "Well, that's not entirely true…"

He looked at her, curious. His files had not inferred that she had taken up with anyone, nor that she had even been looking.

Seeing his expression, she smiled, understanding his confusion. "It will be hard to leave Paris, is what I mean," she said. "It's impossible not to fall in love with the city." She regarded him then.

"I cannot say one way or another how I feel about it, it's a city," he shrugged indifferently. "Actually, this is the longest I've ever been in the city. Before today I was only here for thirty-five minutes."

Anthea looked horrified. "Thirty-five minutes?"

"I was waiting for a plane; I was going to Iraq for a conference." Mycroft replied.

"Paris isn't for changing planes," Anthea insisted. "It's for…for- oh I don't know 'La Vie en Rose'-"

"Paris is for lovers," Mycroft interrupted, looked somewhat sad. He blinked, looking across the candle-lit table to her. "Perhaps that's why I only stayed thirty-five minutes." He was suddenly uncomfortable with how intensely she was studying him. He was used to her watching him. She had always watched him and Sherlock. Before, she had always looked upon him with something like blind admiration. Now she looked at him with observation, as if she knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling. He had the oddest feeling that she did, and damn him if he did not find that attractive about her. He shook his head, motioning for the waiter. "I think we had best be off. We'll walk a bit, to keep up appearances." He helped her to her feet, assisted her into her coat, and was surprised when she returned the favor, smoothing his collar down.

The bill paid, Mycroft gave his arm to Anthea, taking up his umbrella and briefcase and they made their way out into the warmly lit streets.

"You'll take the next plane out of Paris, early, you needn't worry about your flat, I've made all the arrangements, your things are packed and will be shipped in a matter of hours."

The switch from intimate talk to business was almost jarring, and Anthea might have been startled, had she not known who she was walking with.

"Sir," she glanced up at him. "I would like to know why I am being chosen for this position."

"I have already told you that," he began.

She stopped short, forcing him to as well. Finally, he released her arm, taking a step back. The ominous Ice-Man persona slipped into place.

"Let's not beat about the bush," Mycroft said, tapping the tip of his umbrella on the sidewalk. "I am aware it was you who assisted my brother in getting those files from MI6 a year ago."

Anthea's steps slowed, heart thudding in her chest. "And yet you still offered me a job." The words were barely past her lips when she remembered she was now speaking with her employer, indeed the man who quite literally held her very life in his hands.

Mycroft glanced up from lighting a cigarette, the warm glow of the match illuminating his face, making his eyes shine. He studied her, quite stern for a moment, but there was something more in those serious eyes, something akin to admiration. "You asked me why I was hiring you as my personal assistant and I told you it was due to your progress in MI6, your family ties, and your excellent grades. That is only part of it," he took a drag from the cigarette, eyes narrowing at her before he tipped his head back, releasing a breath of smoke before looking back down at her. "My dear woman, no one has slipped into MI6 files so easily since the A.G.R.A. incident. I am hiring you not only as I am certain you are perfect for the position but for the sheer safety of the country's private documents." His smile was barely there, a hint of amusement touching his voice. "I should not like you for an enemy, Anthea."

"Nor I, you, sir."

He looked up from tapping the end of his cigarette, quietly surprised to see her meeting his gaze. There was an underlying compliment somewhere in what she'd said. Slowly, he nodded, finding he was suddenly uncomfortable. Anthea was once again looking at him just too carefully, as if she could see just what he was thinking. It was disconcerting to be on the receiving end of such a gaze. Mycroft realized with a start that Anthea was very much like him.

Only time would tell if this proved to be beneficial.

* * *

 _I did say it wasn't going to be exactly like the movie, but if you are familiar with the story 'Sabrina', you'll see elements inspired by it, some famous quotes and scenes too! Don't worry, sherlolly shippers, there will be some good Molly and Sherlock bits too! Hoping to introduce that in the next few chapters!_


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